


sword on a thread

by hellsreluctantheir



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 22:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30012207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsreluctantheir/pseuds/hellsreluctantheir
Summary: In a quiet moment with Ruby, before the deal came due, Sam described it like the Sword of Damocles. Immense, deadly, daintily dangling inches above Deans exposed neck.And, well, aside from Baby it was the only thing Sam stood to inherit.The first time he met Ruby after Dean died he was busy holding a lighter to the thread.
Relationships: Ruby/Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	sword on a thread

**Author's Note:**

> The working title to this piece was 'the sword of samocles.'

In a quiet moment with Ruby, before the deal came due, Sam described it like the Sword of Damocles. Immense, deadly, daintily dangling inches above Deans exposed neck.

And, well, aside from Baby it was the only thing Sam stood to inherit.

The first time he met Ruby after Dean died he was busy holding a lighter to the thread.

Ruby didn’t pass judgement, at least not in so many words. Just reminded him that revenge was a goal to strive for, not something he’d find drunkenly stumbling into crossroads. Even if it felt insurmountable, sitting in a diner watching her eat. Even if he wanted to go after Lilith right fucking then.

“She still wants you dead, Sammy,” Ruby said, swiping a handful of fries through ketchup. “She can’t do any fun psychic games with you, but that just means she’ll run you through and keep doing it until you’re more hole than hunk.”

He felt his lips thin. “Don’t call me that.”

“A hunk?” She arched an eyebrow at him. Took a bite of her fries.

“Sammy. Don’t call me that.”

“Fine,” she said. “ _Sam_. I’m still right.”

“So, how do we start?” he said.

“All business, aren’t you?” She flashed him a smile. “You went to Cold Oak. What kinda things did you see?”

He looked down, remembering. Took a minute to push past the echo of a blade in the back. “There was this- Ava. She was controlling the demons. Summoning them.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s one thing. But you can do others too. Like send them back downstairs.” She glanced up, saw him frowning. “C’mon, you never thought about that? Old yellow-eyes wanted you in charge, Sam, you gotta be able to discipline the troops.”

He tried.

His head ached, his bones shook, he wanted to drink again. Go down deep into the shadows where no one could find him.

Ruby didn’t seem concerned. “You’ll get there,” she said. “You just need practice.”

The first time they fucked she let him pin her down. And it was her letting him; he knew how strong she was, after the number of demons he’d fought. She’d been relentless, pressing close, pulling his hands and sliding them underneath her shirt, foreheads pressed together. Breath mingling, everything about him pulled taught until he snapped. Turned into a storm that she just rode, he’d picked her up, kissed her, carried her, laid her down and poured himself over her. And she’d taken it all, welcoming hands, and spread legs, and nails down his back urging him closer.

She’d come, holding him tight inside her, and he’d followed her down, face pressed into the crook of her neck, unable to look at her.

After; he’d been shaking, and she’d been gentle. Hands stroking through damp hair, down his sweaty spine. “It’s okay, Sammy,” she’d whispered, pressing kisses to his temple. “It’s okay. Good boy.”

He wanted to say, ‘Don’t call me that.’ Wasn’t even sure which part it’d be responding to. He didn’t.

Three weeks and he was so close he could feel it. Grasping at it, running his nails in the fine line between the oily smoke of the demon and the skin of the vessel, so close to prying it out but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get the leverage, couldn’t muster the strength, and every time he tried they laughed and he heard Lilith’s laugh behind them. Heard the snarl of hellhounds, heard Dean’s screams. It left him worn down, exhausted. Barely able to stand sometimes.

“There’s a way,” Ruby told him, in a empty dive bar. The body of the latest victim still slumped in a chair, blood dripping to the floor from the wound in their chest. “I can help you get stronger, fast.”

“Why are you only telling me this now?” he asked, furious, frantic for all that he barely had the energy to keep himself propped upright.

“Because you won’t like it,” Ruby said, with a rueful smile. Flipped an empty shot glass on the table right way up, pulled out a blade. A pocket knife, not the demon blade. Still sharp, if how lightly she ran it across the skin of her forearm was.

Blood, red and gleaming, dripped into the glass.

“Ruby,” he said. She pushed the shot glass towards him and tugged a wad of napkins from a holder to press against her wrist. “What is this?”

“Drink it down,” she said. “If you’re serious about wanting this. Unless you think you’re gonna kill Lilith in this kind of condition.” Her head inclined towards the corpse on the chair.

His stomach rolled. Ruby had helped him, but this didn’t feel right. This was a step further than just being psychic, this went from being a pawn in Azazel’s game to participating, this-

But then. Azazel. It wasn’t like he didn’t have demon blood in him already.

Carefully he gripped the shot glass, tipped his head, and let it roll down into his stomach. Swallowed three times, hard spasms of the throat, trying to get the metallic taste out of his mouth.

Ruby smiled. “Good boy.”

It worked. He worked. Still shaky, sometimes, still drunk, sometimes, but getting better. Getting colder. Harder. The demons would scream and fight but he slid his nails into the seam between skin and smoke and wrenched them free. Screams subsiding into relieved sobs, when the vessel was still alive. And that was good, that was unequivocally good, that was the best part of all of this.

Until he could hold Lilith in the palms of his hands and crush her, that was going to be the best part of this.

And then Dean came back.

He wasn’t going to give it up, couldn’t give it up. It didn’t mean he was going to tell Dean about it: Dean had struggled with Sam being psychic when it seemed outside of his control. Now that Sam was working at it, now that Dean had been to hell, seemed on edge all the time... Better to keep it to himself. Sneak out after Dean was asleep, he was used to running on almost no sleep anyway. Riding high constantly. On relief, on terror, on the edge of Ruby’s smile, on the iron taste of her blood.

She kissed his neck and it felt like the tip of a blade biting in.

It was never gonna last.

The angels wanted him to stop and Dean had never cared about the opinion of heaven until it backed him up, until he could use it to bear down on Sam until he fractured, until he stopped. Ruby scoffed, retreated. Left him without comfort, without power, without blood. Like his body had gotten used to the extra, and all of a sudden he was running thin. Dizzy, wavering walls and cold sweats. He hid it, he kept going, he panicked and grasped at demons and felt them slip through his fingers.

Alistair, who made Dean shut up cold.

So fuck angels. Fuck their judgement, fuck their war. If they would not step in to get rid of Lilith he would. And it wasn’t just power. It was Ruby, warm beneath him, opening her skin at the base of her throat for him to press his mouth to, running palms down his arms, down his sides.

They would not hide this forever.

But for now she had two fingers crooked inside of him, watching him gasp for breath.

Flat on his back with his legs open for her - her eyes on his face, dark and fascinated, as she pressed her fingers in slowly. Firm, steady pressure inside him, stroking over his prostate until he arched off the bed, wordless, breathless, hers. She smiled, kissed his knee, worked her fingers faster.

“You’re doing so good, Sammy,” she said. 

When they’d started she’d pressed him down, hands on his wrists, pinning him to bed, and whispered, “I want you to stay like this. Can you do that for me, Sammy?”

He’d nodded, desperately, and she’d smiled and kissed him. Time had turned malleable, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d held himself there, fists clenching and releasing but staying pressed to the sheets.

“You’re being such a good boy,” she murmured, dark and warm, as she slid a third finger inside. The stretch had his eyes sliding shut, a moan slipping out his mouth, his dick leaking against his stomach. She hadn’t touched it. Wouldn’t, not until she was fucking him in earnest, and with his hands pressed beside his head he couldn’t touch himself either. Just flex his thighs, roll his hips, try anything to get more- more of any of it.

Her hands were small, but they always felt bigger inside him, when she was focused so hard on him, on the noises he couldn’t help making.

A, “Please,” fell desperate out of his mouth.

She hummed, hand still relentless inside him, leaned up and over until her face was a kiss away. “Do you think you’re ready for me?”

“Yes,” he said, instantly. Never could have said anything else. “Yes- Please.”

She kissed him for that, murmured a soft, “Good boy,” into his mouth, then pulled all the way back again.

Sat up. Pulled her fingers free of him, watching him shudder against nothing for a moment. Picked up the lube. Rose up on her knees so he could watch her slick the dildo up, rolled her hips so it thrust through her hands. He couldn’t drag his eyes away. She always liked that, liked making him watch, making him beg, making him desperate for it.

So he begged, gave her a string of _please-god-Ruby-please_ , fists clenching and releasing, hips rocking against nothing until she finally shifted. Leaned over him, one hand braced on the bed by his waist, the other down. Still on the strap. On what was going to be inside him soon.

One more, “Please,” ragged and hoarse, and then he felt the tip press against him. Against and then, with a little more pressure, inside.

It started slow. Sinuous rolls of her hips, a smooth slide inside him. They both liked it hard, but she liked to tease more. Give him close to what he wanted, easy and steady until he was trying to fuck himself onto her. Jerking his hips as much as he could on his back, with his legs open like this, little movements pushing the breath out of him.

She smiled, and he whined out, “Harder.”

Her smile got wider and she shifted her weight, planted her knees differently, pulled her hips back. Slammed them forward, ramming the toy into him and his whole body locked up for a moment, back arching, dick throbbing.

“Like that?” she said.

“Please,” he said.

“Keep your hands where they are,” she said, voice dark.

Then she was fucking him in earnest, short, sharp thrusts, fucking the breath out of him. His whole body felt electric, white-knuckled fists pressed where she’d told him to keep them, head thrown back, eyes open but sightless, lost in the feeling of her moving inside him.

He was wordless. Desperate. Mouth hanging open.

“Are you close?” she asked.

He nodded, scrambling for words he couldn’t reach.

“Do you want to touch yourself?”

He nodded again, even more desperately.

“Do you think I should let you touch yourself?” she asked, voice rough with exertion but still steady, so steady when he felt like he was spiralling.

“Yes,” he managed, “ _Please_.”

She licked her lips, thrust into him again. And again and again. “Ok,” she said. “You can touch yourself now.”

His hands moved to grip her thigh and his own dick in the same motion. It felt like he was coming before he got there, like as soon as he had permission his body knew it was coming, caught on the crest of a wave, stroking himself through it, high, desperate sounds coming from his mouth as he spilled all over his stomach and chest. She kept moving, kept driving into him, sure and relentless, until he was completely done, until he couldn’t keep touching himself. Then she stayed pressed in, leaned to stroke his cheek, his jaw, murmured encouragements.

When he was lax, spent and breathless, she pulled out. Unbuckled the harness and discarded it over the side of the bed. Knee-walked up his body, framed his face with her thighs, ran her fingers through his hair. Lowered herself down until he could taste the salt of her. Until he could dive in with his tongue, brace his fingers on her waist, meet each languid roll of her hips with his mouth.

He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue and she whined. Her nails scraped on his scalp, tugged his head to a different angle.

“Good boy,” she said, voice smokey and rough, and he pulled her hips harder against him. Moved one hand down to where he could press two fingers into her, drive them in as relentlessly as she’d fucked him. Lapped at her clit until she was moaning. No more nails on his scalp, one hand fisted in his hair the other braced on the bedhead. “Good boy,” she said again, this time higher pitched and breathless.

She came with a cry, clenched around his fingers, tongue still in motion. Her hips locked in place, pressed hard in against him for a long moment, then rolled with aftershocks that made her thighs quiver around his head. Gently, he slid his fingers free, pulled his mouth away, leant his head back enough to see her looking down at him. Dark hair framing her face, dark eyes steady.

There was something unknowable about her, still. After all this time. Demons don’t do charity. She had her reasons for helping him, and he knew that shoe had to drop eventually. Dull certainty and patience; sometimes it felt like it was all he had left. That, and the sword above his head dangling on a single hair.

But there had been a sword above his head his whole life.

At least this one loved him before it fell.

**Author's Note:**

> You can chat to me on [tumblr](http://hellsreluctantheir.tumblr.com).


End file.
